Category Archives: Megan’s Musings

Any nonsense Megan spouts

Everything They Say is Wrong

I was going through the drafts folder of my gmail account (what, don’t you keep half a dozen drafts around and then periodically go through and delete them?), and found a little gem dated October 9, 2012. V was 16 days old, and two years later, I still agree with every word of what I wrote. I’m not sure why I never posted it. Self-consciousness? Feeling it wasn’t “finished”? No idea. But with two years of perspective on it now, I feel like it’s time to just press “publish” already and be done with it.

* * *

Everything They say about babies is wrong. Everything They say about pregnancy is wrong, too.

I’m not sure why it took me the entire nine (ten, actually. See?) months of pregnancy plus the first 16 days of my daughter’s life to figure this out, considering I learned the exact same lesson two years ago with the corollary: Everything They say about weddings is wrong. Now, I don’t mean that every single piece of advice about weddings, pregnancy, and babies is absolute garbage and should be ignored. There are some real gems of advice floating around out there. But the majority of the things you hear over and over and over are just… well, saying they’re flat out wrong is just as inaccurate as what They tell you anyways.

Take the sleep thing, for example. “You will Never Sleep Again”, “Get ready for interrupted nights!” First of all, as any pregnant woman can tell you, she hasn’t been sleeping through the night for months. When my daughter was one week old (you know, last week), she started giving us four hour naps at night. FOUR WHOLE HOURS IN A ROW. I actually woke up from that before she did because my poor bladder hadn’t gone that long without a break since April.

But the story, “You will never sleep again”, reminds me of our wedding and all the people who said “Oh, you won’t get to eat a thing all evening.” My husband and I spent a lot of time with our caterer and were really excited about the meal, so we made it a point to get food at our wedding. And we did. Not only did I have a full plate of dinner brought to me from the buffet, at dessert, I got to go through the line myself. Why? Because we made it a priority. And right now, I feel pretty well rested with a 16 day old baby. Why? Because I make it a point every day to get a daytime nap in addition to our nighttime ones. Did I get 8 hours uninterrupted sleep? Of course not. I haven’t had that since February, and that’s okay. But I’m not dying of sleep deprivation, like They all swore I would.

I’d also like to point out that They said I wouldn’t get any time for myself early on. “You won’t even be able to go to the bathroom alone!” But here I am, able to sit down and type despite the fact that my hungry little girl wants to feed for an hour at a time every two hours because my husband and I are doing this as a team and he currently is sitting on the floor next to the bed with a thumb in her mouth so my poor breasts can take a break. (Thanks, hon!)

There’s something really important one of our midwives said to me at our last prenatal appointment (at 39 weeks, the day before my water broke, when she told me most first time moms don’t deliver until week 41, so don’t get your hopes up! Even fabulous midwives can sometimes be the infamous They.) She told me that while they are experts on pregnancy, no one would know more about my pregnancy and my labor than I would. I think that applies to a lot of things in life — pregnancy, babies, and weddings, as well as the little things. No one knows more about your life than you do. And this tiny little creature we’re just getting to know? Nobody else has spent 16 full days and nights tending her needs, which means nobody knows her as well as we do.

Our pediatrician reminded us at our one week visit that there is no right or wrong way, there’s just what works for you.

The Accidental Housewife

TV rots your brain

V catching an episode of SuperWhy. Or possibly watching Frozen. I can’t exactly remember.

This was not the plan.

For the majority of our relationship so far, I have earned more money than Ben. So, we figured, when we had kids, I’d keep working and he’d be primary care. Obviously, given the strange schedules we both have worked, this would not have meant 9-to-5 style homemakery. And, as a well brought-up feminist, I liked the warping of traditional gender roles.

And then, four months into my pregnancy, I lost my job, and couldn’t get a new one, and lost my insurance, and fell deeper into the identity crisis spiral that had begun a year or so before when my first career started to fail me. And then, our lovely little girl was born and everything just looked so different.

It’s not that I just couldn’t imagine being away from her, because there was that (hormones are hell). It’s not that I suddenly felt some deeper yearning for the domestic life. It honestly does just boil down to the fact that Ben has a higher earning potential than I do. To start with, there’s that whole messy gender pay gap business. But also, while I certainly have plenty of useful skills, his are more marketable. People don’t want to pay me for the things I can do, whereas people do want to hire people who can do what Ben does. Besides, he definitely has the better work ethic of the two of us. If I had paid leave, and V really begged to go to the zoo and the weather was awesome, well, I’m not sure I’m disciplined enough to actually go to work in the face of all that (have you seen her begging face? It’s a work of art).

Not only that, there are certain biological realities that happen in the wake of a baby’s birth that make it a lot more logical for the mother to be the one hanging around all day. I have mad respect for the ladies who go back to work and pump for bottles. While I do have a pump, we do not have what I would describe as a pleasant working relationship. And I worked just too damned hard at getting breastfeeding to work to abandon that for the added whammy of the health sacrifices of formula.

So when Ben found an offer for a full-time salaried job when V was five months old (in the throes of 8 times a day feedings and hormones that screamed don’t leave the baby), it just made more sense for me to stay home and for him to bring home a paycheck. And that’s how we ended up, oddly, surprisingly, confusingly, in the long-standing traditional gender roles. Well, from the outside, at least.

And I’m struggling with it. I don’t even know what to call myself. Stay-at-home-Mom is loaded with so much baggage I don’t even want to touch it. Homemaker seems so heels and pearls with a vacuum cleaner.  Housewife feels like it doesn’t actually tell the story. Not to mention there’s that whole nagging thing in my head asking me, “Are you letting Women down by doing something we’ve all been told is so un-feminist?” How do I reconcile everything I’ve been taught, everything I’ve always believed about independence and self-sufficiency and fighting patriarchial forces with the choices we’re making? Especially when I don’t always feel like this even is a choice?

Sleeping Like a Baby

You know, the phrase “sleep like a baby” never really made a whole lot of sense to me. After all, people tend to complain about babies and sleep more often than not. And since having a baby? The phrase makes even less sense. Sleep like my baby? Briefly and with frequent snacks? Fitfully and with random bouts of crying? Only when being held?

When I was about 8 months pregnant, I listened to a woman go on a full-on tirade about co-sleeping and how dangerous it is, how it’s tantamount to child abuse and there’s all this propaganda in favor of it when really, parents who co-sleep should have their babies taken away for child endangerment. Which, you know, usually propaganda refers to the mainstream option being reinforced, rather than the subversive subculture trying to restore historical norms. But hey, whatever works for your family, right? I figured co-sleeping was just something that would get in the way of me and my adorable husband having our bed back, me getting my body back, and all that great stuff.

So when our little girl showed up, I was pretty surprised at how strongly my instincts screamed don’t put down the baby. All I wanted to do was hold her, and if she wanted to sleep while I was holding her, so much the better. The few times I tried to fall asleep while Ben was holding her, I couldn’t. So many months of sleeping while feeling these tiny little movements, and suddenly I couldn’t sleep without them (not to mention the near-paralyzing fear that at any moment, she might stop breathing for absolutely no reason. Thanks, SIDS-Awareness programs).

So I broke every rule about baby sleep. She slept in our bed, on her stomach against my chest, and with blankets and pillows still in the bed (albeit moved pretty far from her). And every time I tried to do anything different — put her on the bed itself, move her into the bassinet, anything other than holding her against my chest — she woke up instantly and started crying. So I just couldn’t.

Not to mention the fact that she still feeds 3-5 times during the night, and personally, I’m not real crazy about the idea of waking up to a crying baby, getting out of bed, walking down the hall, picking baby up out of a crib, sitting and feeding her in a chair in her room, getting her back to sleep, putting her back in the crib, walking back down the hall, and getting back into bed only to do the same damn thing two hours later. OR I could just roll over and fall asleep while feeding her and wake up when she stirs for the next meal.

I’ve also had well-meaning friends ask when we’re going to get our daughter onto a schedule. I totally get it when it comes to working mothers how a schedule could be the difference between sanity and losing it completely. But see, I don’t have a schedule. I don’t even know how I would put her on a schedule.  Not only that, there’s this whole thing about eat-play-sleep cycles which confused me a bit before she was born and now…

Look, this whole parenting thing is a lot more complicated than it looked from the other side (and it didn’t exactly look like a cakewalk). Ben and I have just been trusting our gut instincts and trying to make choices that really felt right for us. That means a lot of our baby decisions have been driven by my hormones. And there are a lot of hormones involved. I’ve really been surprised by just how strong these instinct-level responses are.

And sometimes, it’s hard to listen to your gut when the entire world around you says to do something else. Put the baby in the crib, don’t let her fall asleep while eating, get her into her own room.

I still maintain my pre-baby comments about Dr. Sears. I still disagree with a lot of his philosophies (not to mention his total misuse of the term “attachment”). But yes, we are doing several things he recommends. Not because he recommends them, mind you. Honestly, it’s because that’s how I was raised. Hold your baby, love her, and listen to your gut.

I think I’m running out of handkerchiefs

You know what’s sadder than trying to take care of a baby while fighting a cold? Tiny baby coughs. Oh, the heartbreak! But she doesn’t fully have it yet, so I’m holding out delusions that she won’t catch it, and it’s not that bad anyways and I’m practically all better already even if I am a little worse than yesterday, but hey, she won’t get it anyways because it’s not like I touch her ever. Or, you know, she spends 5 hours a day with my hands in her mouth. Nothing like that. She’ll be fine.

My sinuses are so full right now it’s not even funny. This is an awesome way to start off Housewife, Round 4. Only this time, there’s no firing me later, because I will not only be Housewife, but Stay-At-Home-Mom.

Cause that’s not weird to say.

Monday, Ben starts a full-time job, which means I join millions of women in trying to figure out what the hell to do with a tiny baby solo for 8-10 hours a day. I know I should consider myself really lucky to have had Ben around for the first four months, and we won’t be able to do anything that awesome for Baby #2. But man, caring for a baby just isn’t a one-person job, and it just sucks so much that our society turns it into one.

This is going to be a crazy ride, possibly the hugest step we’ve ever taken, and it’s going to turn our lives upside-down. But you know what? Despite the congestion and the tiny baby sneezes and coughs, I think it just might be a change for the better.

Changing Identities, Part 382

Our little Sproutling has decided that, at four months, she is now old enough to sleep on her own, for brief periods of time. That means for (possibly) one 2 hour daytime nap in the swing or pack ‘n play (but I still have to hold her for the other one), and then from her bedtime (9pm) to ours (11:30-12ish), I have a baby monitor instead of a baby. Weird.

So, first, an update on yesterday’s pie. The crust is definitely too thin, and the whole thing looks like crap. But the flavor is great and the seminole squash is sooooo silky. And the whole recook the pumpkin/temper the eggs/strain out the clumps is clearly unnecessary. Take that, America’s Test Kitchen. I have officially perfected my pumpkin pie recipe. Now if only I can remember that for next year.

I make no promises on regular updates to this here blog thing, but I will try. See, I envision having  a lot more to talk about over the next few months as Big Things Are Afoot (again). Ben is on the hunt for a for-real full time job, and that puts me yet again staring Housewife right in the face. Only this time, it’s not just Housewife, it’s Stay-At-Home-Mom. I need to parse out what that looks like still, but suffice to say, there is a lot churning around in my skull right now.

Adventures in Cooking

Tonight, I made pie. It was, shall we say, rustic. After the Sproutling had gone down for the night (with much protesting, because what if she misses something, I don’t want to eat I’m so hungry but oh so sleepy DON’T MAKE ME SLEEP!), I whisked myself off to the kitchen to make the long-overdue pumpkin pie we’d been planning for a while with the leftover Seminole Squash. The first half had gone into a magnificent black bean pumpkin soup (I’m currently having a love affair with the smitten kitchen archives and the cookbook which was a Christmas present).

Observe the too small crust, baked paper-thin and transparent. It certainly ain't pretty. But what of the flavor?

Observe the too small crust, baked paper-thin and transparent. It certainly ain’t pretty. But what of the flavor?

At Thanksgiving, I finally settled on My Favorite Pumpkin Pie Recipe, which is the Baking Illustrated Pumpkin Pie, only with fresh pumpkin (because, for some reason, the same people who think it’s perfectly reasonable to use fourteen different types of flour in a single recipe think that fresh pumpkin is just. too. damn. hard. and instead you should put canned pumpkin through the food processor, overload it with spices, and then recook it on the stove, making it necessary to temper in the eggs so they don’t scramble and then putting the whole mess through a sieve for a nice smooth texture) and my old faithful pie crust, which we usually make 4 at a time and freeze.

Oh, did I mention that our oven has no preheat indicator, no window to peek in, and the internal thermostat is off by somewhere betwen 75 and 100 degrees, depending on where you set it...

Oh, did I mention that our oven has no preheat indicator, no window to peek in, and the internal thermostat is off by somewhere betwen 75° and 100°, depending on where you set it…

So I started off with the pie crust from the freezer, only it wasn’t quite big enough for the 10″ pie plate, which I was substituting because last time this recipe filled a 9″ pie, 6 cupcake molds, and a mini-cake pan. And then as I measured out the leftover pumpkin, I discovered I only had 1 1/4 cups instead of 2, so I learned how to overcook sweet potatoes in our brand new microwave (which is really confusing that they’re overcooked because I used the “sensor cook” setting). Then I wanted to pulse the potato in the little Ninja blender, only I’d used that for tuna at dinner and I really didn’t want the flavors mixing, and the baby needed a snack so I ran upstairs while the crust was blind-baking and the potato was resting, then back downstairs to mix all the ingredients together, only Cooks Illustrated wants you to recook the pumpkin on the stove to get rid of the canned taste and then temper the eggs in since it’s all hot, but since I was starting with FRESH, I figured what the hell, and then my crust came out looking like ragged parchment paper, oh just shut up and eat your damn pie. It’s not even a holiday, unless you count Pumpkin Spoilage Avoidance Day, and you’re getting a pie so say thank you and go wash the dishes for me.

Oh wait, I think I hear the baby again.

Coming Back to the World

Having a baby is hard. Nobody lies to you about that. But I do think that having a baby in our society is harder than it has to be, and that is something nobody wants to tell you.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still way happier to have a baby than I was to be pregnant. Being pregnant was the most uncomfortable, unhappy time of my life. I would rather go through labor once a month for nine months than be pregnant every single day.

And that’s really where this conversation gets started, I hope. See, we spend all this time talking about pregnancy and childbirth, and all this time obsessing over what honestly amounts to a rough day. Everyone has advice for the pregnant woman, from how to be pregnant to why she made a mistake by being pregnant. There’s special parking for Expectant Mothers, despite the fact that walking is really healthy for the pregnant body. Hell, when we realized I was in labor, the first thing we did was take a walk around the neighborhood in the hopes that we’d speed things along.

But the new mother who is still bleeding and really shouldn’t be walking around? No special parking. No special attention. People ask how tired you are and how much sleep you’re getting, as if that’s all that matters. And if anything isn’t going well, nobody wants to talk about it. After all, if you have a healthy baby, what else matters?

The early days for us were really hard. Breastfeeding was a constant struggle. Everyone told me “you just have to toughen up” or “it gets easier after a few weeks”. Or my absolute favorite, “But she’s so healthy. Stop worrying.” I spent the first few weeks of my daughter’s life in tears more often than not.

I’m just starting to get time at the keyboard again, so I’m trying to sort this all out still. But this is a big conversation, and it’s one that’s really important.

Waiting is the hardest part

Yet-to-be-named Glow Bear testing out Sprout’s car seat

Products from our registry clean-up have started to arrive, like the car seat. That’s probably the most monumental item, although not the only one. It really does make me look at the living room and think, “Holy crap. We’re actually going to have a baby.” We also got a second-hand bouncer from a friend of mine that makes me feel similarly, although I’ve researched the car seat enough that I think that hit harder.

I probably am going to start posting less over here. I feel like I don’t have a whole lot to say that’s new. Most of what’s going on is a variation on a theme: My [everything] hurts, and I’m tired of people telling me “it’ll be over soon”. If you went to the doctor and said you couldn’t eat, sleep, drink water, or stay out of the bathroom and you have aches where you didn’t even realize you had body parts, and they told you, “Well, it’ll all clear up in about a month”, you wouldn’t find it very reassuring. You’d probably want to stab the fifteenth person who told you that.

I promise I won’t stab you. Just please stop telling me “It’s almost over”. It doesn’t help. It just makes me cranky.
This week’s big project has been clearing out the closet so we can turn the Office Closet into an Office/Baby Closet. We’ve unearthed tons of stuff, including a bunch of holiday gifts from last year that never got mailed. Let this be a lesson to you all: if you want a present from us, don’t live far away. Also, the step-sibs will probably be getting some amazingly good gifts this year, as they will be a combo of last year and this year. In fact, we will probably transform them into Megan’s Awesome Care Packs.

(For those of you who have received one of Megan’s Awesome Care Packs, you know what that means. For all the rest of you slobs, allow me to explain: it starts with a box full of a few things that are awesome. And then more awesome things get added in. And more. Until the box is nearly bursting. And then, we write up an inventory. But you know, since this is coming from me, that the inventory bears little resemblance to your standard list. Oh no. The inventory includes full descriptions of the items, the reason for their purchase, and suggestions for use. With my signature sassiness. These Care Packs are the envy of all who have not received one.)

I think the biggest thing that came out of the closet clean up was a sense of how imminent this all is. We started figuring we’d knock the whole thing out in a couple hours. A day and a half later, the entire house was covered in the contents of the closet, the office was unusable, and we both realized Just How Much Junk we’ve already managed to accumulate. We’re back on the upswing now — more things are getting cleaner than are getting cluttered. I think we’ve each purged about two-thirds of our college papers (do I *really* need to keep my terrible paper on the ethnography of a PA diner from my Communications class?), winnowing down to only the most important ones (Megan’s acting journals from Acting 101? Oh yeah, those are interesting).

We’re also finally getting all the pictures up on walls. That’s only taken a year and a half of living here to finish. It never ceases to amaze me how much a couple picture frames liven up a room, though. The bedroom is almost ready — one more box to go through, then adding the waterproof pad onto the bed. Otherwise, the floors are clear, and the birthing tub is in a corner, ready to be set up when it’s needed. The living room is covered in all the things we don’t know what else to do with, so that’s the next project. The office is still a disaster, but it’s definitely closer.

Emotionally and physically, I am very ready to Not Be Pregnant. I can definitely feel things changing — crampiness that Erin says is my cervix moving around and prepping, digestive nonsense as my stomach prepares, Braxton-Hicks (Erin finally was able to give us a definition that made sense, so now I know when those are happening, too). People talk about the baby “dropping”; Sprout is in proper position, but she never “dropped” because she forgot to lift up during the second trimester. So now… we wait.

Shopping for Baby is Hard

When I was 15 or 16, my best friend and I usually went out shopping after school. We didn’t always buy something. Sometimes, we’d just take three or four laps around the mall before heading home. Sometimes, we’d idly wander the aisles of Target (it was walking distance from the school). Sometimes, we’d even find stuff we wanted to buy. One of the days we were killing time at Target (because, really, what is a middle class suburban teenage existence other than repeatedly killing time until you’re old enough to actually do something useful?), as we wandered through the toy aisle, a stuffed bear caught my eye. 

Just a simple little white bear with extra fluffy fur, it didn’t look like anything remarkable at first. There was a little button on the paw that said “Press”. When you press the button, it lit up in soft, warm colors that progressed through the spectrum. A night-light and a bear, all in one. It wasn’t expensive, either — a totally reasonable $10. I knew for a fact I had to have it. Not for me, you understand. I knew, age 16, that one day I was going to have children, and my child needed to have this bear. 

Ben and I were over at Dad’s house yesterday, and I spotted the bear in my old room. It’s now sitting in Sprout’s room, waiting for a name and some furniture to sit on.

The furniture is coming. We went shopping with my grandma this week and she bought us a beautiful crib. Of course, Ben and I have clearly procrastinated the actual purchase of baby stuff just a little bit too long; the estimate is that the crib should arrive in… ten to twelve weeks. For those who’ve lost count, we’re at 36 weeks, which means the baby should arrive in one to five weeks. Fortunately, we weren’t planning to put her into the crib immediately. And even if we had been, I guess we wouldn’t be now anyways, would we?

The car seat is similarly behind; we placed the order on Amazon yesterday (a generous gift from Ben’s Dad and Stepmom). That at least should arrive next week. Yesterday, we went through and did the “registry completion” shopping bonanza with the lovely coupons those entailed. We wandered around Target for about four hours with the registry gun (why yes, the toothpaste IS a registry item now, thank you for asking), our shopping list, and a handful of coupons. All told, it was over $300, which is way more money than we usually are comfortable spending, but we also completely filled a shopping cart, almost finished outfitting her room, and even found the vacuum I’d been researching on sale (PLUS the 10% registry discount). According to the bottom of the receipt, we saved $76, but that doesn’t take into consideration the comparison shopping we did between stores, the comparison shopping between products, and the general over-analysis of every purchase we made.

I’m very proud of us, honestly. I think we did good.

Annoying Things About Pregnancy, Third Trimester Edition

So I’m eight and a half months now, or nearly nine which is weird because we hit 9 months about 4 weeks before the “due date”. Or, for those of you who, like us, now count your entire lives in weeks, we’re at 35 weeks. Or, if you’re the chick behind the register in the grocery store, we’re at None Of Your Damn Business, Just Finish Scanning My Groceries Please I’m Thirsty and I Have To Pee.

The floor is very far away now. It’s like they moved it, just to piss me off. And the cats want me to pet them in the middle of the room, but they’re SO SHORT.

People ask me if I miss my toes. I actually get to see my toes quite a bit. They’re useful for grabbing stuff off the floor. And just last week, I even managed to paint them (copper base coat with sparkly glitter on top). Oh sure, I can only touch them if I’m sitting, but now they’re all sparkly, which makes me a bit happier when I look down and see how far away the floor is. What I actually miss getting to see? My upper thighs. I’ve been assured they are still there, but I have no proof of this.

My laptop used to actually be usable as a lap-top. Also, putting a napkin neatly in my lap before meals? Totally pointless. Between the belly and the table, I look down and can’t see even a corner of the napkin. And if I actually want to use said napkin, it’s now stuck under my belly. But if I leave it on the table, I’m crass. Can. Not. Win.

Remember how I missed sleeping on my back as of the second trimester? Silly me. I didn’t know how good I had it. Now, I miss sleeping lying down. Or with a normal quantity of pillows.

Somewhere in the second trimester, baby is supposed to “rise up”. Little Girl did not get that memo. Effectively, she “dropped” in the fifth month, somewhere around 24 weeks or so. So people telling me now that “Oh, but she hasn’t really dropped yet. You’ll see.” is a little obnoxious. When I walk down the stairs, it feels like she’s going to fall out. Some days, I swear when I take off my underwear, I’m going to see a little hand poking out. If she goes much lower, she’ll be crowning. So unless you’re a midwife with hands on my pelvis, please refrain from telling me where you think my fetus is hanging out, okay?

We were at a restaurant recently that specializes in their tequila selection. The margarita side of the menu is extremely impressive. When our waitress was explaining the drink specials to us, she looked at me and said, “Well, of course you can’t have any of those, but we have a great selection of non-alcoholic drinks.” You know what, lady? There are studies that show an occasional drink now and then is just fine. It happens that the acidity of the margarita is more of an issue, but that certainly won’t stop me from tasting Ben’s. And, oh, right, it’s None Of Your Business.

Speaking of alcohol and pregnancy, if you take a look at some of the so-called “studies” out there, you’ll note most of them are based on junk science (repeat after me: correlation is NOT causation), or come to conclusions that expressly contradict their results (“We see that fewer than 4 drinks per week causes absolutely no harm, but there is no established quantity that is safe.”). Or, my absolute favorite, they’ll look at legitimate studies and conclude that women can’t be trusted to monitor their own alcohol intake and stick to a reasonable amount (“but what about the alcoholics??”), so therefore all women should be treated as if they were incapable of making rational decisions about their health.

MY body. Not your body. I don’t understand why this concept is so difficult. Don’t preach to me about what I can eat, drink, lift, or do. And DON’T touch me. MY body. MY belly. MINE not yours. If you have a concern, you can gossip about it behind my back like generations of catty people have done before you. I’m good, thanks.

I’m also getting tired of birth horror stories. We get enough of those through the media; can we agree that not all women are going to explode during labor? That it is in fact possible to have a normal, healthy birth without fear and suffering? That birth is a totally natural part of life, happens All The Freaking Time, and is actually less likely to kill me or the baby if we do it at home? (I have news for you: the infant and maternal mortality rates in this country are way too high for the teeny tiny percentage of home births to be responsible for them.)

Please don’t tell me I’m cranky because of hormones. I’m cranky because the world treats pregnant women like objects, because people insist on telling me how I feel, and because my own body is no longer a comfortable place for me to be. Wouldn’t you be cranky too?